Empty Nests
by Wildcard999
Summary: Sometimes the nests are empty, because there are no more birds left to live in them.
1. Barbara

I've fallen back into the darkness again. Please, don't read this on a full stomach. ;)

Warning: Does not adhere to any particular canon history. All characterizations are as IC for the comics as I can make them, but this is intended as a complete AU which fits into the fanon multiverse I'm creating. One or more CC's may have been seriously injured during the making of this fic.

* * *

Chapter One: Barbara's POV

"…And in recent news, tragedy has yet again struck the Wayne household as Timothy Drake, Bruce Wayne's adopted son, was reported missing early this morning—"

Dick's eyes, still red from earlier, begin threatening to overflow again as he flips off the TV. He leans forward on the brown, family room couch, and buries his face in his hands.

I settle down next to him, and rub his back rhythmically, trying to offer comfort.

"Dick, it's alright. Everything's going to be okay; we'll find him." My eyes are already leaking severely and I can hardly keep my voice from cracking. _Dammit Barbara, keep it together! Dick needs you! And how the hell are you going to help either of them, curled up in bed, balling your eyes out?_

The two of us sit together quietly, both straining to reign in the tears, but neither very successful. Nowadays, when Dick gets too emotional, he gets very quiet and closes up, refusing to talk...much like Bruce. Maybe it's just as well; with no leads, I'm very worried—I don't know if I could hold it together if Dick tried to talk about it. Tim may not be my little brother, adoptive or otherwise, but he's close enough. I've come to think of all of them as my family; Tim, Dick, Bruce, even Alfred. Whatever has happened to Tim, I hope…I know he can handle it.

...Can't he?

"More tea, Miss Gordon?"

"Oh…yeah." I wipe the tears away from my face while the manor's resident butler refills my teacup. I must be losing my touch; I hadn't even noticed him there. "Thanks Alfred."

"You are very welcome." Alfred regards the two of us on the living room couch, huddled together in an embrace we hope will keep us afloat above the sea of misery we are slowly drowning in. Alfred, as always, hopes to sail in…ever our rescue ship. "If I may…"

There is a lull in Dick's heaving anguish as he glances up for Alfred's interjection. Our rapt attention temporarily obtained, Alfred continues.

"…Master Tim—Robin, is quite capable. If either of you were in his situation, I doubt he'd worry. Master Bruce trained him well, as both of you. Have faith in him."

As always, Alfred comes through for us. He's right, Bruce trained us all to be the best we could be; to handle anything. Tim may be the new kid, but he trained just as hard as any of us.

"Thanks Alfred. You always know exactly what to say."

Dick doesn't seem able to speak just yet, so he merely nods his agreement with my words. His head still bowed, I can see the tears flow more freely and his jerking body begins to settle. Dick is feeling better too. Yes, Alfred is right; whatever trouble Tim is in, he can deal with it just as well as we can.

—oOo—

Staying cooped up in that house all day, moping, may be fine for Dick and Bruce, but not me. I have to do something.

"Ahhhh…fresh air." There's nothing quite like feeling the winter breeze blowing across your face that only the high-rise rooftops ever see. Down closer to the ground, either the heat of so many people, cars, and badly insulated apartments warmed it all up, or the tightly packed buildings have just blocked the airflow. I revel in the simple pleasure of just feeling, my red hair whipping about in the wind. The warm sun, the cool wind and the dull roar of cars far below…I can just be…Way up here, perched atop a ledge, I am the luckiest girl in Gotham.

It only takes a second for the luckiest girl to realize the unluckiest is screaming for help.

"Please! Leave me alone—Stay back! Somebody, help me!!" The poor girl is dashing madly down an alley, away from the street. Away from the street and right for a dead end.

"Oh my god! No, no—please!" She'd charged fifteen feet before realizing what her pursuer already knew. She is trapped.

Of course, this means he is trapped too.

"Hyah!" Swinging down on a batline, my high kick connects with the perp's lower jaw with a resounding crack. He flies back naught six feet before the turn in the alley stops him.

_Oh well, so I have to hit him one less time_, I smile with satisfaction.

His young victim takes advantage of my distraction, trying to skirt past us to head back toward the safety of public view. The perp rises just in time to watch her stumble past me and seems, just for a second, to consider going after her.

_You really think you can ignore me?_

Never fails. Batman, Robin, Nightwing, they get respect. Why? Because they are boys. But I can be just as tough as them._ I'll show you just how tough I can be._

Our eyes had been locked as I gauged his health and dedication to the fight. I mean, if he wanted to give up now, I might be disappointed, but there's no reason to keep fighting. But his eyes tell me something different. He is scared, but determined. Those people usually run.

In a flash, he charges past me with surprising speed. I was ready for him, but I misjudged how fast he could move and my punch misses him by inches. The man flees, checking behind himself to make sure I'm not right behind him. I stare after him, considering remedies for the lead he's got on me.

When he turns back to watch where he's going, I send up another batline to yank me up to roof level. It's a dirty trick, but the bastard deserves it. _You think you can escape me? Fine, go ahead and think that. You'll see…_

Darting across the roofs, I reach the street side in only a few seconds and check for the perp. He'd turned left when he reached the street, which brought him past my current position. Still running full bore, he shoves past pedestrians and even barrels across the street, narrowly missing the front end of a sedan. The car's squealing brakes hardly seem to phase him as he regains his balance and charges on down the street.

He is still running when I swoop across the busy street, but after I land on the other side, I notice he had slowed to a walk. Probably hoping to blend in with the crowd. A feral grin creeps across my face as I stalk my prey, silently gaining on him with each passing second. I finally overtake him as he starts through a parking lot behind a few apartment buildings. I've been to this area before and the lot only has two exits; the one he entered, and the one on the opposite end. Forty square feet of asphalt, dotted with a few cars, completely enclosed by fencing and buildings save the two exits, makes the perfect trap.

I wait until he is about half way across before I drop down on the surprised man. I hit him with a right hook and a left uppercut.

The man falls to the ground in a pathetic heap, languishing over his injuries. This fight is over; I ignore his piteous moans and slap on the cuffs. After calling it in, I move on to look for another target.

They run, they hide, but they never get away. A lesson Tim's kidnapper will soon learn.

—oOo—


	2. Bruce

Chapter three will be up about a week after this one. And for those who don't know it, I welcome any and all comments on my work. Praise is good for the creative spirit and concrit helps me be a better writer and feel that swell of pride that only comes from hard work and great accomplishments.

Thank you everyone!

* * *

"So, this…Copycat, has been abducting kids from all over the United States?" Dick's brow is furrowed in a glare as he studies the data I compiled.

"Everywhere. The odd thing is, most of the victims had some sort of meta-power."

Dick absentmindedly sweeps a hand through his long, black hair, trying to process the news.

"Superhumans? The victims were superhumans?"

"According to the autopsies." Not that they revealed much else.

"And now Tim's missing, with no explanation or lead." Dick turns to look me in the eye, his handsome face distorted by concern and worry. "You think it's related?"

I can't lie to him, but I can't tell him the truth either. _The look on his face…I wish I could protect him from this, but I need his help to find Tim._

"It's possible." I know he is already considering it in the back of his mind, but I don't have the heart to say it out loud. The fact that someone could be targeting superheroes is unthinkable…especially since all the victims were found out of costume. _If Copycat has Tim—_

"We don't have proof though."

If I didn't know better, I might think Dick is saying that for the both of us; he is right though, we don't have proof the crimes are related. It is rare that a criminal would target victims in that large an area…unless viable targets were in short supply. We have two theories that fit the evidence, but only one of them offers us any real leads to go on, and I'd rather be doing something than nothing.

—oOo—

Nothing. Three days of work and I have nothing to show for it.

I had run down every crook and criminal in Gotham, hacked every camera and database and hit every dive, snitch and informant in the city. Nothing. It's like Tim just disappeared off the face of the Earth.

But I will find him—I have to. It's my fault this happened; if I had been paying attention, he'd still be here. The last time anyone had seen Tim, he was here, going to bed after a long night of fighting crime. All these years, training constantly, pushing myself to the edge and beyond, tuning my body, mind and senses to detect danger wherever it lurked, and yet I still failed. Danger had come here—walked right into the manor and ghosted Tim out, right under my nose. Right under my nose! I had no idea—none! As far as I knew, he had still been upstairs, but when Alfred went up to wake him, he was gone. The signs of struggle were unmistakable. Books strewn all over the floor and twisted into his bed sheet, pillows lying haphazard all over his room and the coup de gras, flecks of blood speckled on the fallen bedding.

I had been horrified by the sight, but even more horrified that it had happened in my house, just a few doors down from where I slept. How? How is it possible? How could a struggle like that have happened so close without my knowledge?

_And now, because of my inadequacy, stupidity and lack of foresight—yes, lack of foresight…If I hadn't been so cocky, convinced of my own ability, I would have taken more measures to ensure my charges' security. Because of my shortfalls, Tim is now paying the price!_

_Like Jason. Just like Jason, Tim is now a victim—a victim in the clutches of some sadistic criminal. But unlike Jason, I will find Tim. I will find him…_

_…before it's too late._

—oOo—

I don't often take his advice when he tells me to take a break, but this time Alfred was insistent. He refused to leave me alone until I left the cave to come up and have tea with him. He said I needed a break. He said it would clear my head, help me find Tim by letting me see what I missed before.

I said I need to focus on finding Tim.

He repeated his argument. Again. And again. And again. I finally relented, if only to get him to allow me to continue my work afterward.

So here I am, sitting in a chair, sipping Earl Grey with my oldest friend and closest family member, while another is suffering untold horrors at the hands of a psychopath. Every part of me itches to get back to the cave and go over everything again, but Alfred is staring hard at me, watching to make sure I relax. So I do. Muscle by muscle, I force my body to a more relaxed state. The tea is good, as usual. Hot, but not too hot, and brewed with just the right amount of flavor. Alfred always did make a good tea.

A glance over at Alfred and his aged eyes tell me he is still worried about me, but he feels much better. In a few more minutes, I ought to be able to go back down to the cave without any fuss. Knowing I will be able to return soon allows me to truly relax. My mind empties of all thoughts but the beautiful wall paintings, the comfortable chair, and Alfred's fabulous Earl Grey tea.

—oOo—

Rrriiinnng.

The phone cuts through the quiet of the cave, filling every corner, then returns to assault my ears in echo.

Rrriiinnng.

Part of me wonders idly if it would be worth it to trace the caller so I could take out my anger on the insensitive jerk who interrupted my work. But I need all the time I have to find Tim.

Rrriiinnng.

Maybe it'll go away faster if I answer…

Rrriiin—

"…"

I can hear breathing on the other end. Ragged and coated with fear. Not the usual type of call to the Wayne residence.

"Hello?" I don't really expect an answer, but it's what Bruce Wayne would do and I have to keep up appearances.

"…Bruce…?"

My eyes grow wide as the voice on the line triggers my memory.

"Tim! Tim, where are you?"

My mind races, memorizing, analyzing and processing every tidbit of information coming across the receiver. The fear in his voice, the cars in the background, the chatter of passing pedestrians…He's using a payphone on a busy street. Only twenty more seconds until the tracer pinpoints where…

"I—I don't know. I don't know where I am or how I got here. I—I—" Tim struggles to tell me what happened to him, but I can hear it all in his voice. Something bad—very bad—happened to him. But I can't allow myself to be distracted by the past. Right now, Tim is on the phone; I can find him right now!

The computer finishes tracing his call as he continues to stammer into the phone.

"Tim, I know where you are. Listen to me, find a public place and stay there. I'm coming for you."

"Bu—"

"Tim, go!"

—oOo—


	3. Dick

Chapter three is finally here! Many thanks to Undead Dungeon Master for beta-reading for me.

Thank you everyone!

* * *

It's been two days since Tim's panicked call from California. Bruce had taken the Batjet immediately to pick him up, leaving Gotham in the care of Batgirl and the imported Nightwing. It's been a while since I've worked the streets of Gotham, but it came back quickly. For a while, I could almost pretend it was still the old days, before Tim and Jason had even put on the mask. But reality refused to be denied for long; Bruce had called back a few hours ago with an ETA.

I finish up with a purse snatcher I had found on the way and headed back to the cave. Barbara is probably already done with her rounds and impatiently awaiting the jet's return.

I gradually make my way down the stone stairway, as if to a dirge. Swirling thoughts and worries consume my attention. I wonder how Tim is—what condition he's in. If…if he's still alive.

Reaching the bottom of the stair, I finally notice the distinct quiet surrounding me. Even the bats are silent. Refocusing my eyes, I take in the grisly sight laid out before me. Everything; the walls, the tables, the display cases—even the computer—is covered in sprays of dark claret, some still dripping. I stare, aghast, at a floor, slick from pools of spilt blood. Numerous tracks, streaking the blood across exposed ground, tell a tale of terror and torment, as victims scrambled through their own blood, trying vainly to escape their horrific fate. My mind swimming, I take two shaky steps forward, and spot a heel sticking out from behind an examination table. One body could never have held this much blood, but my brain isn't thinking; it's only intent is to reach my friend and help her.

Racing to Barbara's side, hope in my heart, I know full well the likelihood that she still draws breath. By the time I reach her, my uniform is more red than black or blue, but I don't care; I have to help her.

"Babs! Talk to me! Are you okay?" My voice is cracking, and my vision clouds with tears as I cradle her limp form. Feeling the coldness of her skin, no sound or movement from anyone but me, I know the truth, but cannot accept it. _She can't be dead! I just talked to her! This is the __Batcave__ for crying out loud_—_it's supposed to be safe! Hell, we'd found Tim; he was coming home. Everything was going to be alright now. She __can't__ be dead!_

"No, no, no, nooooo." I sit in a pool of red, a sticky mess, sobbing into Barbara's matted hair, rocking her gently. "Please…Wake up."

—oOo—

When I had finally finished crying over Barbara, there were still three more bodies for me to grieve for. Three more of my friends waiting to be found and mourned. What was wrong with me? I knew all this blood couldn't have been her's—how could I be so selfish, spending all my time on her?

Tim I'd found curled up under the Batcomputer. I couldn't see him before because the chair, dumped over on its side, had partially obstructed my view. Of course, it didn't help that now everything was painted in various hues of crimson.

As with Barbara, Tim had been slashed repeatedly with some sort of knife or sharp object; I won't know definitively until the autopsy. The wounds bit deep in places, but all of them in nonessential areas that probably didn't impede Tim's ability to feel what was happening to him. He suffered before he died—he suffered a lot.

The fear and pain etched on Tim's face is haunting and almost more than I can take, but rigor has already set in. I do my best not to catch his despaired gaze while I study the scene further; I need to learn all I can about what happened here if I want any hope of catching this murderer. From the position of the body, I realize I can also infer that his attacker had already moved on to something else when he died. The poor kid slowly bled to death.

Alfred's body shouldn't have been a surprise—he was always here—yet somehow it was. He would have been in plain view, splayed out across an examination table, but someone had draped a once-white sheet over him. Alfred wasn't last. My heart skipped a few beats at this realization; who else had been here, and more importantly, is he still alive? Knowing the answer to the first question, I dart around in a desperate search for another body, my own trembling.

Reaching the display cases, I notice the Batman suit seems to be sagging slightly on the mannequin. My heart lurches as my detached state wavers in the face of a cruel reality. Getting closer, I can see the face beneath the mask isn't the usual formless white ball, but a pale, flesh tone with defined features.

"Bruce…"

—oOo—

* * *

This is an origin story written for a new AU Nightwing I came up with. I plan to use him later, but I'm not really sure when that will be, nor what side he'll be on. I welcome any suggestions you might have. People on this site have good ideas, and I'd be remiss to ignore that.


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